‘Is it as simple as that, Brother?’
‘As simple as that,’ Athelstan agreed.
‘Aren’t you supposed to give me a penance?’
‘You’ve already done that,’ Athelstan pushed back his chair, ‘but I’ll give you a fresh one: leave Southwark, never come back. Cling to Jocelyn, love him, close the door on the past, lock and bolt it… But there’s something else, isn’t there?’
The young woman gnawed at her lip.
‘You’ve left in your shift,’ Athelstan joked, ‘with just a cloak and a pair of sandals. You need money, don’t you?’
‘I have some,’ Jocelyn spoke up, ‘but Donata was insistent that she ask you for help. She said your eyes were kind.’
‘Is that why you brought the coffer?’ Athelstan asked.
Donata shook her head. ‘No, that’s my gift. Beatrice and Clarice were my friends, that’s all that is truly left of them. They loved this casket, I don’t know why. Mother Veritable shouldn’t have it.’
Athelstan stared at the small coffer with its faded blue leather cover and the black Celtic crosses painted there. It was certainly old, its locks broken, the lid not too secure, whilst the painted leather covering was faded and chipped. Athelstan tipped back the lid; the coffer was empty.
‘Why were Beatrice and Clarice so attached to this?’
‘I don’t know, Brother. They said it was a keepsake and entrusted it to me. They must not have wanted Mother Veritable to know they had it, but,’ she rubbed the side of her head, ‘if they had it so long, she must have known.’
Donata blinked away tears.
‘Brother, I’m sorry, but you can help me more than I can help you.’
Athelstan got to his feet, went up to his bed loft and, from its hiding place, brought out a small purse. He came back down and thrust this into the young woman’s hand.
‘Can you tell me, before you leave, how Beatrice and Clarice intended to escape Mother Veritable?’
‘I don’t know, I truly don’t. All I know is that the Misericord may have been involved.’
‘Would Mother Veritable resort to murder to keep such girls?’
‘Of course, Brother, she said they were worth more than a bag of gold.’
‘And she would kill them as a warning to the rest?’
Donata got to her feet. ‘Brother, I thank you, and to answer your question, yes, that’s why I am fleeing now. I must go,’ she pleaded. ‘Time is short.’
Athelstan opened the door and the lovers slipped into the night, whispering their farewells and thanks. Athelstan closed the door and bolted it, crossed himself and said a small prayer that both would be well.
He returned to the contents of Sir Stephen Chandler’s casket and eagerly sifted amongst them. There was a smell of mint from the quilted sachets placed there. The contents were personal possessions, relics of Sir Stephen’s past: a dark blue pennant, neatly folded, displaying a golden falcon, wings outstretched, talons curved to strike; a key; a Turkish dagger with a jewelled hilt in a purple silver sheath; a small reliquary, allegedly containing a piece of the True Cross; a velvet purse, heavy with gold and silver coins; a small Crucifix; a pouch of sand; two exquisite mother-of-pearls; scraps of parchment; a calf-skin-bound ledger and a cream-coloured roll of parchment. Athelstan scrutinised these. The first contained the accounts of Sir Stephen’s estates, showing income and expenditure, all neatly entered alongside each other. A quick survey proved how prosperous Sir Stephen was – the sale of livestock, corn, hay, fish and timber, not to mention the income from rents and leases as well as certain mercantile investments.
‘Truly a finger in every pie,’ Athelstan murmured.
The expenditure was equally lavish: offerings for Masses; the foundation of a chantry chapel in a Canterbury church; gifts to retainers at Christmas, spring, midsummer and Michaelmas; precious cloths brought from Flanders; furnishings, the work of craftsmen in London, Canterbury and Dover. The beautiful roll of parchment, soft and wrapped in strips of red silk, was a draft of Sir Stephen’s will. The writing was that of a professional scribe, the Latin that of a scholar, and its clauses, Athelstan concluded, the work of some high-ranking lawyer. According to this, Sir Stephen had left most of his estate and wealth to his children. Only one thing was left to his colleagues, namely this very coffer and all it contained.
The Dominican pushed the documents away and stared at Bonaventure, curled up comfortably on the floor. ‘Why,’ he murmured to himself, ‘would Sir Stephen bring these documents with him? His accounts, yes, but why his will?’
Athelstan cleared the table and took out his own writing tray. He studied the memorandum he’d written so quickly during Sir John’s interrogation at the tavern. From outside echoed the muffled cries of the Judas Man’s retinue, now settling down for the night.
Athelstan marshalled his thoughts.
Item – Toadflax’s death? An unfortunate accident, death by misadventure Cranston would rule. But what does that prove? That the Judas Man had not been given the fullest description and so was easily confused. A subtle trick by the Misericord which showed both how cunning and suspicious he was.
Item – The murder of the two whores.
Athelstan paused – he felt guilty. He crossed out the word ‘whores’ and wrote ‘women’.
Who invited Beatrice and Clarice to the Great Ratting? The way they were summonsed was well known, so the girls were neither suspicious nor wary. Accordingly, they must have known that if they were invited to Master Rolles’ tavern they would do business, otherwise they would have not refused Chandler. But who had asked for them? One of the other knights? The Judas Man? Master Rolles? Even the Misericord? But why should the Judas Man or Master Rolles murder them? The Misericord? Had these two young women tricked him and so paid the price? Most unlikely; the Misericord was a rogue but hardly a killer. Mother Veritable? A woman with a midnight soul, cruel and ruthless; was she so angry at these two young women plotting to escape that she killed them? But
